


Ithaca

by monchy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monchy/pseuds/monchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He closes his eyes and sees and old, filthy motel room (...)</p><p>Post 2x21</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ithaca

He closes his eyes, and he sees an old, filthy motel room, twin beds and rumpled sheets, a gun forgotten on a wooden table. There’s a white t-shirt wrinkled on the floor, and a grey duffel bag throw haphazardly next to it, the sun coming from the window hitting it and casting a shadow on the dry floor. Dust floats in the air, and he feels it go up his nostrils along with the smell of cheap shampoo, gunpowder and sweat. A hand climbs up his side, to his arm and then to his shoulder, a thin finger scrapping dirt from under his ear. Dean, he says, and it feels like home.   
  
He opens his eyes and he sees a dirty black boot sinking in the mud, a place of solitude growing before him. His hands are wet, and it is salty sweat what taints them, making them feel heavy in between his and Dean’s bodies. It takes him some time to realize that they are limp, numb. He inhales, smelling fear on his brother’s lax body, and he wonders if Odysseus would have been happy if only he had forgotten about Ithaca.   
  
He doesn’t close his eyes this time, but he sees, even if his eyelids are shutting, drawing a dark curtain over his foggy vision. He sees a lonely road covered in brown orange leaves, and hears his bike rushing through the dirt. Then, his bike thrown away, turned into an indescribable mess, and his chubby little hand reaching out, helpless, his lips mouthing owie, Dean.   
  
There’s an acrid smell filtering inside his nostrils, far away from the fresh scent of trees in autumn, and reality finally sinks in, drawing him in. And wow, so this is what death feels like. A dull pain on his back, low, lower, right where a hand – Dean’s, some part of him supplies – clutches desperately at his jacket. He can’t see, but there’s no mistaking the tinge of blood red that must be covering his older brother’s hand.   
  
He sees, no, no, he’s wrong, he had seen it happen. His own body fall inside his brother’s embrace, boneless, close to death. One time and another and another and another, much as he had seen Jess on his ceiling. There weren’t smells, though, not the fragility surging up from his brother’s sweaty neck, the filth of the mud covering their clothes, the familiarity of Dean’s leather jacket, the everlasting, stuck-into-his-head scent of blood. It’s real enough now.   
  
He doesn’t close his eyes this time, but they just drop. As the blood on his brother’s hand, as the lingering scream on his brother’s lips. Sam, they call (scream), only it doesn’t feel like home this time. He wants to sneer, smile, smirk maybe, but he knows he can’t, and there’s a peaceful bliss in the feeling. He can’t drop forward, not anymore now that Dean is supporting him, but he does let go, eyes closed and breath getting lost into a trail of wandering wind.   
  
He sees another motel room, – maybe not, maybe it’s the same one; does it truly matter? – a queen sized bed and clothes thrown carelessly to the floor. He hears a moan, deep, low and rumbling, and wills it to linger inside those four walls. It smells nice, of sex and adrenaline. A hand cups his ass, brings him closer still to sticky skin, and a voice murmurs Sam, Sammy.   
  
His eyes don’t open this time, not again, and he sees no more. And no, he muses, Odysseus never had a chance on happiness.


End file.
